#senseoftaste

Ryan had always relied on his finely tuned taste buds to guide his culinary creations, tasting his way to perfection in each dish he prepared. But one winter morning, he woke up feeling a little off, his mouth numb and flavours muted. Shrugging it off, he tasted his breakfast, only to find he couldn’t distinguish a pinch of salt from a dash of sugar. Day after day, he tried everything from herbal teas to home remedies, hoping his taste would return. Yet, his senses remained dulled, leaving him lost in a world without flavour.

He felt as though he’d lost a part of his soul, sinking into despair. How could he continue his career without his sense of taste? How could he make his food sing if he couldn’t even hear its melody? Days turned into weeks, and he stopped cooking altogether, avoiding the kitchen like a stranger.

His grandmother, an old cook herself, watched him flounder, sensing his frustration. One evening, she pulled him into her cozy kitchen, where familiar spices hung like memories from her pantry shelves.

“Ryan, let’s cook together,” she said gently, guiding him to the counter.

“But, Nana,” he protested. “What’s the point?”

She smiled knowingly and handed him a bundle of fresh rosemary. “Close your eyes,” she instructed. “Feel it. Roll it between your fingers. Smell it.”

Reluctantly, he obeyed, rubbing the rosemary between his hands. The rich, earthy aroma wafted up, awakening a memory of a lamb dish he’d once made. He could almost taste the rosemary, even if he couldn’t physically sense it.

“Cooking isn’t just about taste, Ryan,” she said, her voice soft yet firm. “It’s about all your senses. The way an ingredient feels, the way it smells, the sound of a sizzling pan.”

As she spoke, she handed him cloves of garlic to peel, their smooth skins slick and fragrant under his fingers. He listened to the gentle crackle of oil heating in the skillet, heard the garlic’s soft sizzle as it hit the pan, and felt a growing appreciation for the orchestra of sensations he’d overlooked in his single-minded pursuit of flavour.

Ryan started experimenting, honing his other senses like a blind artist learning to see with his hands. He’d run his fingers over the delicate grains of salt, listen to the crunch of a crust forming, inhale the bright, citrusy perfume of lemons. Gradually, he learned to “taste” without tasting, creating dishes guided by textures, sounds, and scents.

One day, Ryan prepared a meal for his grandmother—an aromatic, beautifully balanced spread of roasted vegetables, seared fish, and herb-infused sauces. He watched as she tasted it, her eyes lighting up with delight.

“It’s delicious, Ryan,” she said. “I can taste your heart in it.”

In that moment, Ryan realized he hadn’t lost his gift at all. His grandmother had shown him that his creativity, his passion, and his resilience could still shine through—even in a world without taste.

Driving to the barn, I’m eating my light, pre-barn snack. The kettle corn’s sweet and salty taste is so satisfying. I lick the excess butter off of my fingers, one at a time, and wipe them off my pants. The settling salt in the back of my throat causes a burning sensation, causing me to drink the ice-cold water in my Yeti. I feel quenched, yet I haven’t even stepped foot on the barn. The window is down, and while I turn onto the dusty, gravel road up to the barn, I get an unfortunate mouth-full of dirt. I spit, dismayed, and roll my window up.

           Walking through the barn, I am already taking sips of the water in my hand, I need to be hydrated for the hot ride. Passing through the aisle, horses eating their early dinner on either side of me. Some with molasses, some alfalfa, and some with senior grain, they all munch, simultaneously enjoying the food. When I reach Frazier’s stall, he’s eating his senior grain mixed with his powdered supplements. I decided to surprise him with an apple. Before I lay it flat on my hand for him to eat whole, I take a small bite, and the juices burst in my mouth. I immediately salivate, as the surprise of the sweet apple consumes my taste buds. He takes a huge bite, clearly excited for his treat.

           Excitedly, he walks out of the stall, hoping and sniffing for more treats. I get his grooming supplies and tack after attaching him to the cross-ties. His delight from his small treat reminds me how important, but unnoticed, simple pleasures are in the busy real world. I think about how miniscule my worries are; why do I let a plethora of small things worry me when I am happy, presently? I groom and spray Fray, getting a bit of fly spray in my mouth. I don’t mind though, it’s surprisingly pleasant for a bug repellent. I saddle and bridle him and put my helmet on. Before getting on, I get one last gulp of burning cold water, reviving my throat.

           I hoist myself on and hold my water by the carabiner until reaching the top arena. Frazier, below me, attempts to make a passing bite at the grass when we reach the tasty, green arena, but I yank up on his bridle. Eating while wearing a bit can be a choking hazard to the horse, because grass or hay can get caught in it.

Sense of taste #daytwentyseven #napowrimo

A mini cabbage

Immediately I envision those savory cabbage rolls mommy made as a child

The vegetable in this bowl could not possibly be transformed to that

These are always the subject of rejection in foodie conversations

  Sitcoms that I faithfully watched as a child

Deemed this particular food to be horrible

The actors’ faces were befuddling me

How bad could it actually be

  My very first…